Sins of a Wicked Princess by Anna Randol Page A

at her for a long moment. Only the silvery light from the moon illuminated his face. The scar on his cheek seemed to stand out in sharper contrast. And, for the first time, she noticed lines of exhaustion around his eye.
    She longed to trace those lines, but she knew as soon as she did, this quiet moment would be over. He’d make some ribald comment, his smirk would return, and she’d have to respond in kind, as if her heart wasn’t beating so hard it hurt. As if her skin didn’t feel itchy and too tight.
    “Ian,” he said.
    “Ian.” She tested the name. It fit him. Simple, yet not plain. “And your last name?”
    “Doesn’t matter. It’s not mine. It’s simply one I picked for the sake of having one.”
    “But everyone has a last name.”
    He took the lock from her hand. “In your world, Princess, not in mine.”
    He was putting distance between them. A process she was far too familiar with. People who kept a respectful distance when they found out who she was. All the bowing. The constant overpoliteness.
    Ian had never done any of those things and she didn’t want him to start.
    “I’m from places fouler than the mud on your shoe,” he said. “So foul, in fact, the filth wouldn’t even dream of aspiring to be the mud on your shoe.”
    “You aren’t mud. You’re a spy.”
    “Some might argue they’re the same thing. Besides, I was a spy. I’m currently between positions.”
    “You are not between positions. If you need money, I can pay you to teach me.”
    “Ah.” He smiled slowly. “Let’s not bring money into our relationship. Just a good old-fashioned exchange of services .”
    Sweet mercy, he made it all sound perfectly wicked.
    “Definitely time to move on to our next lesson,” Ian said, pointing to the lock in her hand.
    She blinked at his abrupt change in topic. “What is it?”
    “Over here, Princess.” He laced her fingers though his.
    She sucked in a breath. Princesses didn’t hold hands. Oh, they touched people. She held men’s arms. She placed her fingers on men’s hands to be kissed. But Ian’s fingers tangled with hers, more secure and more tantalizing than she would have imagined.
    His fingers were strong and callused to the point of being rough. She’d never had cause to be embarrassed by the smoothness of her hands, but she couldn’t help a brief worry that he’d think her soft and useless by comparison.
    He led her in front of her dressing table and sat her in the chair. He lit a candle and placed it next to her.
    When she tried to turn her head to see him better, he stood behind her and placed his hands on either side of her face, stopping her. “Look at yourself in the mirror.”
    “I know what I look like.”
    “You only think you do. Your face gives away every single thing you are feeling.”
    “No, it does not.” She happened to have perfected a stoic, regal demeanor.
    Ian lifted a brow. “Does too. Now watch.” He caught her face again. “Watch yourself. Not me.” His hands skimmed down the sides of her neck. “You are flushing. All delicate and pink.”
    “I am not—” But she was. She could see it.
    His hands continued their stroking. “Your eyelids are heavy. Your eyes dilated.”
    They were. “I hardly think people are going to be . . . stroking me when I go to retrieve the letters.”
    He paused and she met his eyes in the mirror. “Shall I use my words instead?”
    “ Yes .” Before she embarrassed herself by moaning.
    He removed his hands. “Shall I tell you how your night rail taunts me? I have seen women all over Europe in every state of undress. Women from the Orient in silken wisps designed to tempt a man to madness. But this plain linen gown haunts my very dreams until I fight going to sleep each night because I know what my dreams will bring. Dreams of lowering my mouth to your breasts. Of laving your tight nipple through the thin fabric. But what truly torments me is that I know no matter how vivid the dreams, they will